


The Anchor Holds.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Just a lot of Harold being hurt and John at his bedside pls, Lots of it, M/M, Medical Jargon, SO MUCH OF IT THOUGH, Serious Injuries, Whump, harold whump, i dont know what else to tag it with, some little bit fluff at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10405593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: While saving a Number, the situation turns bad and Harold ends up getting seriously injured. John goes half mad with grief, rage and concern.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M_E_Lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_E_Lover/gifts).



> Because they asked for my tiny Rinch fic-let thing to be an entire story and said it deserved to be one. And here we are.
> 
> ALL OF THE THANKS IN THE WORD TO Sky for Beta’ing and fixing it. For reassuring me the timeline is not a mess by being seriously AWESOME about it. And for making sure stuff is not too MEDICAL, or in other cases, is just medical enough, to make sense. She’s as brilliant and amazing as they come and I owe her a world of gratitude. 
> 
> And finally I am always gonna be eternally grateful to [Leena](http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/) because I probably wouldn’t have tried writing something so emotionally heavy, or would’ve given it up halfway, if not for her constant encouragement, and her willingness to even read my raw/rough/non-edited/nonsensical stuff and telling me it was worth finishing. She’s lovely!! Thank you!

**NOW**

 

The monitors beeped intermittently, a regular rhythm that gave a sense of normality… safety.

To John, sitting with his head bowed and holding Harold’s frail limp hand in both of his… safety was a thing of the past; of a time when Harold was healthy, was speaking, was laughing at his jokes and reprimanding him for being careless.

Any sense of security shattered when Harold fell to the ground. There was nothing safe now, not with Harold lying on the hospital bed, too many tubes attached to his small frame, an oxygen mask covering his face.

He looked lifeless.

For the hundredth time, John’s restless fingers found his pulse again, his own heart rate calming down with the slow but steady thrum of Harold’s pulse.

“You can’t die,” John ordered. He wanted to laugh mirthlessly at that- Harold was never the one to listen to orders, so he amended his tone. “Please. Please, don’t die,” he begged.

He took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. One of the tiles of the false ceiling was chipped- imperfect black in the white uniformity. It felt like a wound. Looking back down, at the face of the man he owed his life to, he swore.

“Damn you.” It felt good, so he said it again. “Damn you Finch. You had no right. You had no right to come between me and my fate. I am living on borrowed time anyway. I am not… I am not worth saving.” Even as he spoke the last words he could imagine the raised eyebrows he would get in response, the disapproval dripping from the voice chiding him. John half expected Harold to sit up in displeasure to remind him how _worthy_ he is. A helpless wet chuckle left his throat at the image.

“But you,” He stared down and a drop of liquid formed on his eyelashes and fell down, splattering on the wrinkled delicate hand in his grasp, “I can’t lose you too. Don’t leave me alone. Not again.” He raised the hand he was holding to his mouth and reverently pressed his lips to it, stifling back the sobs that threatened to leave his chest. “I love you.”

* * *

  **3 days ago**

 

“I think I found something.” Finch said suddenly, typing furiously and glancing towards John to have him come stand behind him. “Mr. Nicolas Tomson, before he took this name and started college, went by another surname. Nicholas Santora!”

“Santora as in…” Reese started.

“The leader of drug trading ring in the city, yes!” Finch slid his chair back a little, tilting it and looking directly at John’s face, his expression grave.

“That definitely explains why we got the Number of a perfectly ordinary Law student,” Reese mused.

“Indeed.” Finch twisted his lips into a grimace. “If we could find this out, it’s completely possible someone else could too. There are any number of reasons why someone would want to kill a drug lord’s son.”

“Maybe someone wants to extract revenge on him for something his father did.”

“Or maybe he is more involved in his father’s business than we can see.”

“There is almost an equal chance of perpetrators being from Santora’s gang or a rival gang,” John was doing quick probability calculations, and moving away from the table.

“We cannot disregard the fact that he may himself be a perpetrator as well.” Harold added, forever paranoid.

“In any case,” John crouched down in front of a bookcase, “I better go check it out. Get more information.”

“Mr. Reese, I think we may need to involve the detectives in this one.” Finch looked back at where John was taking out a handgun behind the books in the lower shelf, and raised his eyebrows. Reese shrugged, nonchalant. It wasn't like Harold didn’t know he had stashed weapons everywhere.

“What makes you say that?” Reese asked, casually checking the cartridge.

“Considering the dangers of engaging with a Number who is the son of a prominent drug dealer, it’s only prudent. Do you really mean to go out and handle it while holding a small handgun?” The incredulity in his voice was frankly a little insulting.

“Come now Finch. We all know that size doesn’t matter. It’s how well you use it.” He smirked, and added in a little wink. Harold was as unimpressed by the innuendo as he suspected, but the eye roll he received was heartwarming. “Anyways, I thought you didn’t like guns.”

“I do not advocate violence, but I recognize the need for self-defense and safety. Something that you’re clearly lacking.” Finch could not have instilled more disapproval in his voice even if he tried.

“Relax, Finch,” he assured, cocky. “I will be okay. It’s just surveillance. If there is trouble, we can call Fusco.”

As Reese moved towards the door, he saw Harold standing up and getting his coat as well. “Heading somewhere, Harold?” John asked.

“There is nothing else I can find digitally. I am thinking maybe I can get more information from talking to his teachers and peers at work. Figure out if they know anything important. I am sure the administration would be more than willing to talk if offered a generous donation by Mr. Crane.”

John thought about it. It was a good plan. He nodded.

“Good luck with that, Finch.” People in academia were always more willing to give information to a sophisticated kind man who looked like a professor than someone like Reese. Harold knew how to use that to his own advantage.

“Same to you, Mr. Reese,” Finch nodded at him curtly. They both walked out of the library together and locked it. Before they parted ways, Harold gave him one more considering look before saying, “Keep your earpiece on. And be careful.”

John gave him a mock salute, before they turned in opposite directions.

* * *

  **NOW**

 

The nurse came in at some point, and looked at Reese still clutching Finch’s hand like a lifeline. She opened her mouth to say something but noticed how blank John’s face was and wisely refrained from it and left, after smiling sympathetically. John would cry at that little kindness if he didn’t feel so detached. Instead, he went back to looking at the rhythmic strip of ECG monitor, feeling hypnotized by its steady ups and downs.

And vaguely comforted.

Sometime later, the doctor checked up on the patient, and patted John’s shoulder saying something about how Harold was doing as well as they expected. He told John that this was in Harold’s hands now. It was his battle. John felt a surge of hope at the words. He had never known anyone who could fight as well as Harold, and win as consistently.

“You should get your bandage changed.” The doctor nodded towards his arm when John looked at him in confusion. Oh. There was fresh blood on his sleeve. His wound was bleeding again. “It can get infected.” The doctor insisted.

He wasn’t talking about Harold anymore, so there was nothing of interest in his words. John went back to looking at the ECG monitor, and pressing his fingertips against the pulse at Harold’s wrist, wordlessly urging him to fight; to fight harder; to live.

The doctor lingered for a few moments, before shrugging and leaving the room, patting his shoulder one more time. The touch barely registered.

Sleep had been an unattainable luxury for John for the last two days. But somehow, the artificial calm of the moment lulled him into a sort of trance- not asleep, but not really awake either. He could feel the weight of Harold’s hand in his, and it was the lifeline connecting him to reality. Preventing him from drifting off into the void.

He jerked back into the present when he felt it twitch. John looked at the hand in shock, which twitched again in front of his eyes, as if reassuring him it wasn’t a dream. It was a sign of life, greater than the thrum of his pulse had been, and John felt his hope rising, threatening to overwhelm him. Harold’s fingers suddenly stiffened, and he held on to the hand with both of his, rubbing it lightly, wordlessly telling Harold it was okay… he was here.

Quite suddenly he realized something was off though. The twitching had now transformed into jerking, and he watched in horror as it marched up his arm, frozen into a statue as Harold’s entire frame stiffened, convulsing on the bed, his spine stiff in a way he would never allow when conscious, too mindful of his injuries.

Distantly, he recognized it was a seizure.

Even more distantly, he could hear the beeping alarm. He knew he should press the emergency call button, should scream for help, do something. Instead, all he could manage was sit unmoving in his spot, feel Harold’s hand that was cardboard stiff in his hand, and forget to breathe.

Soft but insistent hands pulled him to his feet and pushed him away, as a team of medical professionals entered the room. He followed their direction like a puppet with no strings. They tried to get him to let go, saying words he could not register. Someone came to stand in front of him, to block his vision. He doubted the image of Harold having a fit on a hospital bed would ever fade from his mind though. John let himself be manipulated, be slowly shuffled out of the room, and snatched glimpses as a nurse injected something into a cannula on Harold’s hand.

Before they closed the door on him, he saw Harold’s body relax, sinking back in bed. There were no life signs visible, the ECG monitor not in his sight anymore. His fingers closed around empty air, clenching into a fist.

He couldn’t feel Harold’s pulse.

* * *

  **3 DAYS AGO**  

 

In between ducking from a punch from the guy on the left, and blocking the attack from the guy on the right, John managed to tap his ear piece.

“Finch,” he said, breathless, “there might be a little problem.”

Understatement. He was surrounded by four men, which wouldn't normally be a problem but they were well trained, matching John move for move. On top of that, they were armed. The momentary distraction cost him a blow to his injured shoulder, and he gasped.

“Mr. Reese, are you hurt?” Finch’s concerned voice answered immediately.

John looked at his arm, where blood was trickling out of the gunshot wound and covering his entire sleeve in crimson paint, dripping on the ground periodically, and answered, “You can say that.”

Harold seemed to understand though, if the way the pitch of his voice rose was anything to go by. “Where are you right now? I can alert Detective Fusco to your location. I estimate he can be there in fifteen minutes?”

“Might not have fifteen minutes, Finch. These men _really_ want to abduct Mr. Tomson.” He minced the words, stopping in between to duck from yet another swing of the knife.

“Where is he?” Finch asked, as if suddenly remembering he ought to have been concerned about someone else too.

“Unconscious. I am the only thing standing between him and his eventual kidnapping.” John was not pleased by how it turned out. He was taken off guard.

“I traced your cell. You aren’t far from the university. I will be there in five.” Harold sounded like he was walking really fast, and John’s breath caught. _No!_

“No. Don’t, Harold. This is too dangerous,” John’s anxiety over the danger Finch was rushing towards cost him a few punches to his ribs, but his attention was too trained on Harold’s reply.

“I called Detective Fusco. He assures me he will try and reach you as soon as he can. In the meanwhile… try to keep yourself out of harm’s way. I am almost there,” Finch said, before the call disconnected.

Reese wanted to call out for him, do something to stop this recklessness, but suddenly aware of all the blows he was shielding with his body, he tried to follow Harold’s orders. Finch knew his limits. He could take care of himself. Despite trying, he could not reassure himself though.

Fortunately, he had no time to think about it. His wound plus his distraction soon landed him in a no-win situation. A thug on each side of him, holding his arms and immobilizing him, while another loomed in front: a large muscled man, waving his knife casually as if he would enjoy slitting John’s throat. The way he spat blood on the ground- possibly because of a broken tooth from one of John’s punches- he was sure that there was more truth than exaggeration in that assumption.

“Now,” he sneered, “you will tell me who you work for.”

“Will I?” John taunted, his heart beating loud. This was not looking good. How far away was Lionel?

“You will.” Quick as lightening, he moved and pressed his thumb into the bleeding wound on his arm, making a scream die in John’s throat, and agony run through his veins. “Trust me. I know how to make a man talk. How to make him scream and cry. Introducing you to it… it would be my pleasure.”

John did not doubt that. But there was no way out. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe this was always how it was meant to end.

“Who… are you working for?” The man was in his personal space now, his knife digging into his neck. He could feel the sharpness of it, and the slow trickle of blood oozing from where it was pressed. Recklessly he moved forward, making it dig deeper.

“You actually think I am afraid of dying,” Reese taunted. It took a few seconds but he registered when the attacker finally figured out John won’t crack. His expressions turned violent, but also secretly pleased. Reese could tell that he was going to enjoy sinking that knife in his gut.

The blade was pulled back, and John closed his eyes, whispering a hushed goodbye to Harold, giving one fleeting thought to all the things unsaid and wondering if things would’ve been different if he had spoken them.

There was a loud thud, muttered curses and a scream, and he opened his eyes to see the man holding the knife on the ground, holding his head. That was when he noticed Finch, standing behind him, and holding a pipe.

He had a split second of relief before the two thugs holding him immobile started lunging towards Harold. Suddenly a lot more invested in the outcome of the fight, he pulled one of them back, fighting him. The blood loss and the pain was making him sluggish, but he needed to fight. To hold on. To protect Harold.

Someone restrained him from behind, a chokehold he couldn’t get out of, and at the same time he heard Harold scream. He thrashed, trying to get free, but another man was landing punches on his chest and stomach, and he was helpless.

Calming himself and resorting back to his training, he waited 'til there was an opportunity to kick, to subdue, to retaliate, drowning out the whimpers he could hear, the cries of pain. Becoming too overwhelmed by Harold’s situation was not going to make a difference. This was the only way to help Harold. He needed to focus.

When he was out of the hold and the two men were lying on the ground groaning, he turned and ran. He had to stifle the gut churning horror at seeing the man with a scar on his forehead- the one he had clocked as the leader of the team of thugs-kicking Harold in the stomach, while he lay lifeless on the ground. He fought the third man between him and Finch, as fast as he could, trying to think of nothing else but the task at hand.

He didn’t even hear the police siren, but he registered the way the four assailants reacted to it. Abandoning the fight, they ran, but not before one of them grabbed Mr. Tomson, and dragged his unconscious body into a car. John only noticed these things peripherally. All of his focus was on running to Harold and sitting by his side.

_Oh God._

Harold wasn’t moving. He was too pale, too weak, too hurt. There was blood, oozing from the cuts on his face, from his body where he was dragged on the ground and abraded, and a little pool under his head.

_Oh God._

Shakily, not touching Harold, afraid he might break him, he moved his fingers to his neck. There it was… too fast, thready, but a beating pulse. His chest was rising and falling too. He was alive.

“Harold?” He shuddered, begging for him to reply, “Jesus Christ. Harold!”

He sat there, bleeding himself, but unaware… staring at the broken figure of the usually pristine man. This was his fault.

_Oh God._

* * *

  **NOW**

 

They let him inside the room after an hour. He dragged his chair to the far wall and sat there, afraid of touching Harold. It had to be him. His bad vibe… He is a destroyer. He always knew that. John had just gotten used to being the one doing the saving and forgotten his role in the grand scheme of things. Forgotten it was Finch who was the savior, and Reese was just the instrument to bring it about. A weapon, wielded by someone who healed rather than hurt for once. It did not change what John was though, not in the slightest.

Harold was harmony; he brought order to the world. Now… without him, John was what he had always been: chaos.

The doctor with a kind face, whose name John could not remember, had debriefed him about Harold’s episode.

“It’s not an unexpected outcome. Cerebral edema caused by brain trauma often leads to seizures. It does not affect the overall prognosis. When- If- he wakes up, this seizure does not increase his complication chances.” His voice was soft, as he stood beside John. Then, he had smiled and said, in false optimism, “He will be okay. Pray for him.”

And then there was this. Complications. He could not even imagine how Harold would react to waking up and not having his brilliant genius brain anymore. He knew Finch, he knew he would rather die than be without his immense intelligence. Selfishly, he didn’t care. He wanted Harold to live… whatever the cost.

John had shunned the idea of God for so long, but now, he found himself clasping his hands and praying to a deity he wasn’t sure existed. Anything. He would do anything if it meant he could hear Harold speak his name again.

“Hey.” He was startled out of the trance he was in and noticed there was a woman crouching in front of his chair. A nurse. Campbell, the tag on her overcoat said. “This doesn’t look good,” she said and John flinched.

Was Harold doing worse than before? His eyes flew to his monitors, expecting erratic movements, or worse: a flat line.

“No.” The lady shook her head, “Mr. Crane is doing as well as expected, I am talking about you.” She glanced at his arm, where his shirt was dark sickly red. It was wet. And then at his neck… where he couldn’t see but he was sure the bandage was not clean either. It had been more than two days now.

John looked at her blankly. It hardly mattered. This was nothing.

“You don’t want Mr. Crane to wake up and see you dying because of infection do you?” She reprimanded kindly, and his lips twitched at the image.

Harold would be pissed. He could see the arch of his eyebrows and the frown.

“No,” he said, his voice a mere croak because of disuse.

“That’s what I thought. It would hardly take a few minutes. I will sit with Mr. Crane until you get back. Please get your wounds checked.” She put her hand on his, a comforting touch. He blinked back tears.

“No,” he repeated again, because he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t leave Harold.

“Alright.” A pat on the hands lying in his lap. “Alright. Not yet, but soon yeah? Promise me.”

He couldn’t understand why someone was being so kind to him. He was the reason Harold was here. He had been too slow, too careless, too full of himself. He had sauntered into a dangerous situation with nothing but a handgun and bravado. Harold was dying, might never recover, because he compromised him. And yet…

A single tear broke through the barrier of his eyelashes, sliding down.

He nodded.

* * *

  **2.5 days ago.**

 

Fusco tried to help him pick up Harold, but he sent him a glare, which made him raise both his hands and back off.

“Just trying to help here. No need to be violent. Unless I am wrong, Glasses needs medical attention.”

He did. Oh God, Finch needed a doctor. John looked at Lionel, and something on his face must’ve shown his helplessness because his irritated face softened and he said,

“Pick him up, alright? I will bring my car around.”

John nodded. He could do that, he could follow instructions.

Carefully, he cradled Harold’s head, running shaky fingertips through the blood in his hair… pressing lightly. He could feel no fractures, just a scalp laceration. That was good. He ran a trembling hand down Harold’s front, and clumsily opened buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, trying to assess his ribs. The sight made his stomach turn. He wanted to retch and heave the contents of his stomach out. But it wasn’t time yet.

The left side of his abdomen was mottled purple. This was too soon to form bruises. _Internal bleeding_ , his mind supplied and he checked Harold’s pulse in horror again, noticed his pale face. He ran his fingers, light as a feather, on Finch’s ribs… at least two of them were broken, bending inside.

This was not good. Not good at all.

The honking of a car horn nearby alerted him to the time passed, and careful as cradling a sleeping child, he picked Harold up, a hand under his head, keeping it as stable as possible, and another under his waist, gingerly lifting him. Lionel had opened the back door of his service car, and John felt a split second of relief at the knowledge that there would be fewer delays and questions about the source of their injuries. He had testimony of a cop with him.

He lay Harold down on the seat, sitting with Harold’s head on his lap, running bloody fingers over his face, checking his carotid pulse again and again because the pallor of his skin was unnatural.

“You’re bleeding all over the seats, Wonder Boy. Tie this on your arm.” A rag of cloth was passed to him by Lionel, and he could hear the concern in the voice.

“Just drive, Lionel,” he bit out. He knew he lacked the coordination to do anything right now.

“I would need someone to carry the man into the hospital and it ain’t gonna be me. So I need you in working order. Take the cloth, dammit.” Lionel turned around and stared at him, slowing the car, and Reese took the piece of fabric just so he would drive faster.

“Hurry, Lionel. Hurry.” He showed his worry, too far gone to mask it, as he hastily tied his wound, barely wincing at the spark of pain.

The man in his lap was shifting now, gaining awareness. A pained groan and his eyes half opened, glazed. He wasn’t aware of the situation just now. Harold tried to sit up and moaned pitifully, his hands going to his side and clutching where he had fractured multiple ribs along with internal bleeding. The whimper tore at John’s heart. He had rarely felt so helpless.

“Harold,” he begged; for what? He wasn’t sure.

Harold seemed to be unaware of his presence though. He raised one of his hands to his head, touching the back of his scalp with seeking fingers and flinched violently. John felt his own frame recoil in response too. Harold brought the fingers in front of his eyes and his face became even more ashen than before.

John made to move, to shake Harold into the present and then froze.

“Nathan?” Harold called out, soft and wondering. “Nathan!” His voice became urgent and he looked around in panic, waving his hand and trying to get up.

Helpless, John pushed on Finch’s chest, trying to keep him from moving. The injured man seemed to be stuck in some memory from the past, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out what it might be.

“I am here, Finch.” He ran a calming hand down Harold’s face and torso, smearing more blood on it.

“Nathan?” Harold asked again, his eyes unseeing.

“Yes. I am here, Harold. I am here.” He promised. Tears finally leaked out of his eyes, and he looked away lest they fall on Harold’s face. A sob wracked his frame when Harold's searching hand grabbed his wandering one, clasping it tightly.

“Thank God,” Harold breathed and John felt hatred burn in his gut. He had no right to this moment. No right to hear the relief in Finch’s voice at knowing his friend was alive.

“Right here, Harold. Always,” he found himself murmuring promises nonetheless. Anything to help Harold in the moment, even if he was cementing his hate for himself with every word.

The restlessness in the wounded man’s body seemed to decrease after clasping John’s hands, as if he had finally found an anchor. He held them tightly against his chest. Harold seemed to be losing his energy now, and slurred the next words. Yet, John heard them as loud as the sound of a trumpet, clear as the order to charge.

“Don’t leave.”

“Never,” he vowed, his voice breaking.

He saw Harold drift into unconsciousness again, the grip on his hand loosening.

“Hurry up, Lionel.”

He felt like he could hardly breathe until the tires screeched to a stop outside Mount Sinai Hospital.

“Does he have an ID on him?” Fusco was the calm and sensible one right now. If he wasn’t so preoccupied by the color of Harold’s skin, John would’ve found it funny.

“Yes,” he rummaged in Finch’s pocket, feeling himself cringe at the breach of privacy but he was sure Harold would understand. He had left in the morning as Harold Crane.

Maybe there was some little luck to be had after all. 

* * *

  **NOW**

 

Carter brought flowers. Yellow daisies and sunflowers looked like a strange splash of colors in the clinical white of the hospital room. John’s gaze fixated on them, as she fussed with them, setting them in a vase by Harold’s bedside. He was glad Joss had not chosen roses. Red reminded him too much of the pool under Harold’s head after the fight, the stains on his white bandages as the nurse changed them, the gasp he emitted when he saw it color his fingers in the car.

He was glad Carter had chosen yellow. Yellow brought back vague nostalgic memory of sunlight through library windows and the taste of coffee.

“Take a girl to eat something, John.” She smiled at him, tugging at his sleeve, and he got up and followed her without comment.

She led him to the cafeteria and ordered food for both of them. He stared at the tray she placed in front of him uncomprehendingly.

“He can’t afford you to crash as well,” she explained.

He pushed the tray away. Food had never seemed more unappetizing. “No, thank you.”

“John! You look like a mess. Have you eaten anything since you got here? Slept?”

He hesitated before shaking his head. Lying to Carter never worked out for him. She opened her mouth to say something, but he cut in…

“I am fine.”

“No, you aren’t.” She shook her head, exasperated. “But nobody is asking you to be. This is a difficult time for all of us, but you aren’t alone in this. Try and remember that.”

He had no idea what she meant. He was always in this alone. For a while he had Harold, a partner, and look where it landed him.

“Go home, John.” Joss insisted.

“Home?” he repeated, the word foreign on his tongue.

“Get some rest. Shower. Eat something…” She kept talking, and the words seemed to stop registering after a while. She sensed that. Carter was perceptive like that.

“At least drink some water.” She passed him a bottle and he took it. He could do this, and maybe it would make Joss look less miserable.

He uncapped it and took a large gulp, realizing when the cold water hit his throat how parched it was. On its way down, he suddenly remembered Harold convulsing in front of him, and the water seemed to get stuck, not going down anymore. He coughed, suffocating.

Joss was by his side in a minute, rubbing his back soothingly. He coughed a few more times, his eyes stinging. Carter ran her fingers through his filthy hair, and like a puppy, he moved into the touch. John let his forehead touch the table, hiding his eyes which were leaking now, out of his control.

“You’re going to be okay, John.” She consoled, as she patted his head, “He’s going to be fine.”

He wished he could believe her, but all he could do was nod, trying to get himself under control. Eventually, he sat back up, swallowing raw.

“Thank you.” He looked at her face, expecting disgust. But all he could see was concern and love. The last thing he deserved was sympathy, and yet, he accepted it, stashed it in his heart to keep him warm.

“Any time, John. For you and Harold, anytime.” She promised. Hearing Harold’s name from her lips, he closed his eyes tightly.

“I love him.” He admitted out loud. Harold might never hear it, but he wanted someone to know. Anyone. “I love him, Joss.”

She cupped his tear-stained face in her hands, making him look in her eyes. And then she said, soft in a way mothers are, “I know.”

“I never told him… and now, I may never get the chance.” He looked for reproach in her eyes, an accusation of not seizing the moment, but all he could see was understanding.

“You will.” She promised something she had no way of granting, but her conviction gave strength to his hope, “Also I am sure he already knows.”

She smiled and kissed him on his forehead, as he let tears break free from his eyelids again.

* * *

  **2 days ago**

 

He was still clutching Harold’s hands as they wheeled the stretcher into the operation room. The nurse on his side asked him to let go when the OR doors opened but he couldn’t. He was afraid if Harold went behind those revolving doors, maybe he will never get back out.

Maybe John would never see him again.

The last two hours had been the most nerve wracking time of John’s life. Rushing in with a barely conscious Harold in his arms, bleeding from multiple shallow wounds and his breath coming out in small gasps, had been like stepping into the most important battle of his life for John. Harold, on the other hand, was quickly overtaken by a horde of doctors talking in hushed voices and about complicated things. Two randomly thrown phrases stuck in John’s mind, internal bleeding, because he was already expecting it, and brain trauma, which he had been dreading to hear.

Multiple tests, brain imaging and abdominal ultrasound later, the doctor had taken him and Fusco to the side- who, bless him, helped keep the situation together when John felt like he would fly apart any second- and told them Harold had Epidural Hematoma: there was a bleed above Harold’s brain, blood accumulating between skull bone and brain, compressing it. If they didn’t remove the pressure, it could cause irreversible damage, and they needed to take Harold into surgery as soon as possible.

John had nodded, almost sighing in relief, because above the brain meant not the brain. They would fix it, until the doctor winced, saying, “But…”

There was always a _but_ complicating every situation. Why had John not learned any better 'til now?

Ruptured spleen. John tightened his hold on the metal frame of the stretcher, wanting to punch something. The bastards had ruptured Harold’s spleen.

“Let go of him, Wonder Boy.” Fusco put a hand on his shoulder, startling him out of the memory. John had even forgotten he was around. “Let the good doctors do their job.”

He turned around and looked at Lionel’s face, and some of his grief and desperation must have showed through because he patted him on the back and smiled a little, “He will be okay. I bet he will throw a royal fit about his shaved head when he wakes up. That’s what you should actually be dreading.” A helpless chuckle left John’s throat, and he could feel a sob bubbling up inside him.

“Let go, John. He will be okay.” That, Fusco saying his name rather than calling him a clever nickname, was what helped. The nurse nodded a quick thankyou towards the Detective, as John slowly let Harold’s palm slide away from his own.

He wondered if he will ever feel the warmth of the skin again, or if the next time he touched him, it would be chilled with the touch of death.

The red light of the OT turned on, and John started pacing. He had to, otherwise he would crawl out of his skin. There was an unnerving silence inside his head, where no thought lingered. So he paced, the name of Harold like a prayer on his lips. Distantly, he recognized Fusco sitting down. He called him to sit down too but John ignored him. When this was over, when Harold was next to him, safe and healthy, he will thank the detective properly. Or maybe he will let Harold do the honors. Without Fusco on his side, the gunshot wound and the injured man in his arms would have raised many questions, despite the rich identity of Crane. The man had stayed sane while John had panicked, had filled out all the required forms, which let John stay by his partner’s bed and worry in peace.

Lionel was also the one who had dragged John to the minor OT for stitches and bandages when Harold was taken for his CT scan. Otherwise John would’ve bled all over the place, unconcerned. It was sure to draw attention if nothing else.

He owed him a lot.                                            

But right now, he couldn’t focus on it. Right now he was doing his best to not let guilt overwhelm him. He was doing his best to focus on anything other than the fact that Harold had broken ribs, a ruptured spleen and possible brain damage all because he had been careless. All because he had not listened to the man’s advice. All because he had been too confident in his skill.

And look where it landed him.

He stood with his back to the wall, and banged his head lightly. Fate was cruel. If John had been the one lying in the operation theatre, on the brink of death, he would find it a fitting end. Destiny even. Harold deserved better. He didn’t deserve to die because John was too stupid for his own good.

John kept standing like this for a long time, back the wall, posture stiff and mind somewhere else, a few hours back, thinking about how if he had moved faster, been stronger, fought harder- but that was beyond his control now. He was in his own personal hell, flagellating himself for every wrong move, every mistake that led him here. So immersed in all the things he couldn’t change, he almost didn’t see the theatre light turning green.

Fusco stood up and rushed to where a doctor was coming out of room, taking off his cap, his blue gown pristine and spotless. John wondered if they changed them after the surgery, to not scare the relatives. Frankly, he would prefer the blood stains: some sign of the battle fought inside, some proof of it being won. He stood still like a statue, seeing Lionel communicate with him, transfixed. Another doctor, this one older, female- the neurosurgeon, some part of his brain remembered from the introductions before- came out to talk to the detective as well. John didn’t have the courage to move ahead and listen, even if his heart was racing because this was important. He needed to know.

Fusco looked back at him and nodded. The older doctor followed his gaze until her eyes landed on John, recognizing him from before. She smiled and gave him a little thumbs up.

John’s knees gave out.

He collapsed on the floor, without any grace. Wrapping his arms around his knees, he realized he was shaking. Closing his eyes tightly and curling in on himself, he tried to get himself under control. Finch was okay. He made it. He lived. But his body was braced for bad news, his mind stuck in the cycle of everything that could go wrong, and relief wasn’t easy to accept.

An image of Finch’s smiling face went through his mind, and the thought that he might be able to see those expressions again after all made his breath hitch into a dry sob, and he rocked his curled body back and forth, hugging himself.

Fusco came and sat with him on the ground, and John was grateful he didn’t try to talk to him. He allowed him the dignity of putting himself back together again.

* * *

  **NOW.**

 

John kept still while the minor OR staff bustled around. The nurse gasped when he took off the bandage which was soaked with blood. He muttered something under his breath that John didn't catch before going back out. Minutes later- or it may have been longer, John could not say he had any sense of time left- he returned with someone else. A surgeon, Dr. Morgan, going by the tag on his scrubs. He quickly put on gloves while the nurse readied a tray.

“Your stitches are open.” The man had a gentle voice, soft. “I am going to have to redo them.”

John nodded.

“I am going to anesthetize the area,” he started explaining but John shook his head.

“Mr. Reese,” that was his name on the file and John’s throat went suddenly dry.

“John.”

“What?”

“Call me John.” He insisted, and then added a quiet, “Please.” He could not stand to hear the name from someone else’s mouth. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“Alright, John.” The doctor placated. “This is going to hurt. You need the anesthetic.”

John wanted to laugh. Instead he managed a sudden choked huff. “It won’t.”

Dr. Morgan looked at him for a few more minutes, testing his resolve. Finally finding what he wanted to see, he nodded, putting back the syringe in his hand and nodding at the nurse. She brought out the instrument set, putting away the vial. With deft hands, the doctor removed the opened stitches and then wound a fresh thread on the holder and gave him a concerned look. John nodded.

If John wasn’t staring at his wound, he probably wouldn’t have even felt the needle go inside his skin. He wondered if he should flinch, but there was no pain. Just flesh being sewn together, the pull of the thread causing blood to ooze. The red was vaguely captivating. The needle went in and out, closing a gaping wound with black small stitches, and making it whole. It was almost like something happening to someone else. John’s soul still had a raw seeping hollow.

Ten minutes later, with a fresh bandage strapped on his arm and a stern admonishment to be more careful, John started walking back to where Harold was. Nurse Campbell had promised to sit with him until he got back, but he still should head back soon. He didn’t want Harold to wake up and not find him there.

Halfway through the corridor, the loud sound of an alarm froze his feet. He knew what this was. He had been around hospitals enough to know what a Code sounded like. It sounded like a sharp beep followed by a team rushing in. He stood like a statue, in the middle of the corridor, staring as someone dragged the emergency cart into the room. There was a man lying on the bed, too old to be Harold. This was the wrong floor to be Harold. But somehow, he found it difficult to breathe.

There was a flurry of activity, a nurse pressing the man's chest, hard and fast - John had a sense memory of doing quick compressions in the field, ribs breaking under his hand. You were taught basic life saving techniques when they sent you to your death, and CPR was one of them. Another nurse was holding a mask on the patient’s face connected to an Ambu bag. Every time the chest compressions stopped, she squeezed the inflatable bag two times, forcing air into the patient’s lungs. Fifteen compressions, two breaths, fifteen compressions, two breaths, four times and then switch. He watched as the doctor powered the machine, and pressed the two plates to the skin of the man’s chest, seeing it rise in a jerk. The monitors showed a spike in the monitors for a few moments before returning to a flat line. A nod from the doctor and the team started the compressions again, competent orders of administering different drugs, and taking blood. John could not remember how long he stood there, how many cycles of compression and ventilations passed, how many times the drugs were pushed into his collapsing veins and how many times his heart rate refused to stabilize to the defibrillator shocks.

Eventually, the team leader said something and everyone stopped. They stepped back, and someone checked his pulse one more time before dropping the hand.

The monitors showed a flat line. Someone called the time of death (John couldn’t hear it, but he could see it in the finality of expressions, in the way the words were spoken after a glance at the clock) and the monitors turned black.

His head was eerily quiet, a calm steadiness was there in his feet as he started walking back, one step after another and no other thought in his mind. When he reached the door leading to the room where Harold was, he had to close his eyes tightly, dreading something he was too terrified to even name. Inside, everything was exactly how he left it, the kind nurse sitting in the chair he had vacated, far from the bed. When she saw him enter, she stood up, and with a nod and a smile she left. He barely remembered to say thank you, as she passed him, and in reply she just patted his arm.

It was when he turned around to close the door after her that he realized how weak his knees felt, how his legs were trembling with effort of maintaining his stiff posture. He raised his hand and placed it on the door, pushing it closed. His hand was shaking uncontrollably. Supporting himself on the door, he bent and pressed his forehead against the cold metal, sagging. After a couple of deep gulps of breath, he turned around, pressing his back against the door, and stared ahead. Not at Harold’s face, but at the monitors, the heartbeat trace reassuringly rising and falling.

“Don’t die.” He whispered to no one in particular. “Don’t. Just… don’t. Please.”

* * *

  **1.5 days ago.**

 

Harold was alive.

John went back to his apartment, only to gather some equipment from his closet, and change into clothes that weren’t blood stained. He had the Number’s mobile blue-jacked, and possessed more than enough technical knowledge to track it, get its GPS location. Nicolas may not be alive any more, and some cruel part of his heart didn’t really care at the moment, but that had to be his first stop. Maybe his captors were still around, holding the man as bait to catch the big fish.

Harold was alive. But the men who hurt him would not be. Not for much longer.

When he reached the co-ordinates he let out a mirthless chuckle. This was so predictable. An abandoned warehouse? These were the men who managed to one-up him and harm the one thing most precious to him? His chuckle held as much hatred for them as it did for himself.

Even so, he pointed the grenade launcher at the window and fired. A smoke grenade sadly, because he didn’t want to harm any civilians. But he had no temperament for subtlety either. His rage was explosive, and he was letting it manifest itself.

He waited for the shouting and the mayhem, setting the launcher aside and taking out his gun, and stepped to the side of the door. It opened and John was ready for the two men who came running out, shooting one of them in the knee and as he collapsed with a scream, he tased the other one, and then bashed his head on the wall. The man collapsed on the floor, dead to the world. Distractedly, he also hit the other man rolling on the ground just hard enough to make him lose consciousness. Then he reloaded his gun, pulled the safety off and entered.

There was a hush inside, everyone probably ready for him. He didn’t care. No bullet could hurt worse than the resounding screams of Finch inside his head did.

Harold was alive and he owed him revenge. He was damn well gonna take it. Saving the number, if possible, would just be the bonus.

From then, it was hilariously easy to fight his way inside. There was a predictability to places like this. There was always that tactfully placed stack of crates behind which someone was hiding, and all you needed was a well-aimed bullet to maim or kill. Somehow, John still managed to dredge up some mercy and did the former rather than the latter. Three more people, writhing on the floor or unconscious later, he reached the interior.

There he was.

The man with the scar on his forehead and tattoos on his neck, and a face he would never forget.

Rage turned his vision red, and he raised his gun. The other man looked a little scared, probably seeing all of his companions fall against one man was troubling. He was holding his gun pointed towards Nicolas’ head, who was sitting tied up in a chair, struggling.

John smiled a terrifying smile. The gun shook in the other man’s hand looking at it. Good. The reaper was supposed to induce terror in the heart of men. He was just doing his job.

“Don’t step closer.” He threatened, pressing his gun against the young man’s temple, making him wince. “I will shoot him.”

John didn’t even dignify that with an answer. Quick as a snake, he lowered his aim and shot. There was a shout and then the gun clattered to the ground, the thug holding his hand cradled to his chest, bleeding.

He stepped forward, relishing in the look of fear in his prey’s eyes. He briefly wondered if this was how angels of death felt, when taking the soul of the people who deserved it. The man raised his uninjured hand, trying to placate him. But John remembered that those very hands had hit Harold, bruised him. He wanted to rip the arm out of the socket and nothing was stopping him now.

The commotion would’ve alerted the police by now. He had just a few minutes, and he was going to savor them.

“Hey. Hey man. Please stop.” There it was, the cowardly pleading. John took another step and suddenly the man knew there was no mercy to be found. They had taken all that was good in his life, all that made him human. They had hurt the one most precious to him, and now only the devil remained. And it was obvious that the devil showed no remorse, no pity.

The tattooed man attacked. Good. It would make taking him apart more fun.

He ducked the first punch and instead landed a well-aimed jab on his ribs. Not broken yet, but will be, soon. He was going to enjoy doing that. Stepping aside, he kicked the man in his shin, making him utter a cry and fall to his knees. This was actually too easy, too fast, so he stepped back to let the man stand up again, only to punch his nose. It broke under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch. Back again, only to twist his arm, hearing it crack, and back. A few minutes of toying later, when he attacked again, picking him up and throwing him on the ground, the man didn’t get up. He turned on his back and stared at him, accepting defeat. Pathetic.

Join picked the gun from the ground where he had thrown it, and pointed it at the fallen man’s forehead. Hatred burned ugly in his gut, simmering and bubbling. The man was scum. He deserved to die. He had hurt Harold and God knew how many before him.

_We save lives, Mr. Reese._

John closed his eyes and swallowed. Harold was alive, and he wouldn’t want someone to die in his name.

His carelessness had already caused Harold lifelong injury he may never recover from. Did he really want his selfishness to put a death on Harold’s conscience too?

He opened his eyes again and stared at the broken body of the man lying on the floor. Yes he did. He really did. More than almost anything else, he wanted to see light go out of the man’s eyes as he watched, putting out some of the raging fire in his soul.

Almost.

He angled the gun and shot him in the knee instead, eliciting an agonizing scream, making the man double over. Twisting his lips in mock enjoyment he changed the angle and pulled the trigger again, this time aiming for the shoulder. The cry was immensely satisfying. He stared at the thrashing man for a few moments, and then threw the gun away in distaste. There were sirens sounding in the distance, and he couldn’t help one last thing, a well-aimed kick to ribs, hearing them crack, before stepping away.

As almost an afterthought, he untied Nicolas, who had witnessed the entire thing, and was probably more afraid of him than he had been of the men who kidnapped him. The flinch told him that. Also the way he almost stumbled away from John the moment he could move.

“Go,” he said. “And talk to your Dad!”

If the man was intelligent, he would figure out what to do. He was aware of the danger now, and had the law on his side. His mission was done. The Number was safe, the threat neutralized. He wondered if Harold would be pleased - of course he would be, the man had a heart that bled for everyone.

Straightening his coat, he walked out of the warehouse, just as the police arrived. He walked for two blocks before calling Fusco, and telling him where he could find an active crime scene. The detective sounded resigned, but didn’t complain.

His arm was bleeding again, he could feel the blood trickle to his wrist. Well, he was headed to the hospital anyway.

Revenge was supposed to taste sweet. All John could taste was dread though. Harold was alive but for how long? And in what state?

* * *

**NOW**

 

John still could not bring himself to drag his chair closer. His hand would obsessively grip the arms of his chair tightly, fingers digging into it and trying to find a rhythm of pulse consistent with the rise and fall on the screen but there was nothing. He ached to hold Harold’s hand again but he was afraid the moment he touched him, Finch would shatter and disintegrate, and he would lose him forever. So he stayed where he was, and watched. And waited.

Eternity later, he saw Harold’s hand move. So used to the stillness of the room, the little movement drew his attention all of a sudden. He stood up and braced himself. He didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see Harold convulsing in a seizure again, but this time he would press the button and be useful. Because he was ready for the worst, what happened took a while to register. Harold’s hand flexed on the sheet, clenching and unclenching. And then his eyes fluttered open, his mouth opening in a gasp. In the next blink, after it registered, John was at his side.

The injured man tried to push on the mask on his face, trying to get it off. He was taking large gasping breaths, speaking something. His voice was barely a croak and John wasn’t even sure if there were words in it until he heard a faint crackle of “John.”

Frozen in the middle of attempting to hold the man’s hand, to orient him, he stared as Harold finally managed to snatch away the oxygen masks. “John.” He repeated, looking around with unseeing and uncomprehending eyes.

Reese held the flailing arm, trying to process the situation, hearing his name being repeated in that choked, panicked voice again and again.

“Finch.” He said, but the man didn’t seem to hear him at all. He was moving his other hand now, the one not in John’s grip, trying to push himself up. The scream of pain made John get into action, and he squeezed and rubbed the hand in his own palm, clenching in both hands.

“I am here Harold. I am here.”

“John.” The voice had hysteria now, and Harold was tugging at the IV lines connected to him. “Where’s John?”

“Harold.” John let go and held the man’s face, cupping it in both his hands and stopping it from whipping around. “Harold. I am John. I am here.” He tried to meet the man’s eyes but they were very far away, dreaming a nightmare John could not guess.

“John,” he whimpered, and finally managed to pull away the lead connecting his finger to the pulse monitor, leading to a beeping flat line. John could not control his thrashing, could not hold him without being scared of causing more harm. He called for the Doctor, shouted it, as he slammed the emergency button over and over, while at the same time murmuring soothing words to the man struggling on the bed.

“Let me go.” Harold fought, and then begged. “I need to find him. I need to get to him.” John shook his head, holding tightly, and Harold screamed this time, his voice cracking “John.”

He didn’t even realize he was crying until the nurse rushed in, injecting something from a syringe into the cannula on the back of Harold’s hand and John tried to keep him from pulling away. There were tears dripping from his eyes, freely, as the man he loved took his name over and over again, and could not recognize him, could not see him, until his voice calmed down and he slurred, words unintelligible.

 _“He’s out of danger now_ ,” the doctor- who came a few minutes later- told him as he sat on his knees, his forehead on the railing of the bed, his hand refusing to let go of Harold’s hand now that he was finally feeling its warmth in his palm. “ _The worst is over.”_

He had looked at him askance. How was the worst over? Harold didn’t even seem to recognize him. John’s mind whispered the word he wasn’t willing to voice: brain damage.

Panic, the doctor explained. Harold mind had not caught up with the present yet, his consciousness still stuck in the last situation he remembered. But other than that, all of his responses seemed to be normal. Apparently, a violent and fighting patient was always better than a quiet one.

He couldn’t even dredge up a smile at the quip, couldn’t even properly say thank you. He stayed there, almost prostrating in relief. The doctor seemed to understand his emotions because he left. He pulled his chair closer to the bed before going but Reese stayed there, on his knees, refusing to move an inch any more.

He felt more drained than he had after any form of torture. More weak than when they had removed half of his blood from his vessels, slowly bleeding him dry. More broken than after having a dozen bones of his body splinted.

Yet more relieved than he ever had after making it out alive from any of those situations. Because Harold had made it.

There was no comparison.

* * *

**1 day ago.**

 

He walked back to the hospital. He needed the time to clear his head, remove the monstrous rage and the guilt and replace it with something resembling composure. It didn’t work. Instead, the dread grew, taking root in his heart and overwhelming his senses. His steps quickened, until he broke into a run. He was sure he would reach the hospital and the nurse would shake her head, let him know they tried to reach him, but they couldn’t.

Let him know they tried.

A few blocks away from the hospital, a payphone rang. John’s steps slowed, but he didn’t stop. He needed to see Harold. The ringing stopped when he moved a few steps ahead, and he breathed in relief, only to stiffen when the next pay phone closer to him rang too. He looked up, locating the street camera pointed towards him, and glared.

_Really?_

Its creator was dying, and it wanted to save some random stranger. John scoffed, shaking his head and kept walking. The ringing phones followed his path, like a trail of music, and startling random passersby. John ignored it all. It wasn’t his business. His steps were steady and quick, his destination sure. He couldn’t afford distractions.

When he entered the hospital, the phone at the reception rang. Technically, it wasn’t anything new, but John waited for a moment, suspicious. As he had guessed, the operator said hello a couple of times, and got no reply.

Stubborn little thing the Machine was. Much like its admin, he thought with a smile. Admin, who was currently in his room, maybe breathing his last. The smile shriveled away from his face, as he looked at the tiled floor and walked away. Away from a life in imminent danger, an irrelevant, to the one who was more relevant to his existence than any other soul on earth.

So he was selfish like that. He never claimed to be a good person. No. That had always been Harold.

He needed directions towards the room Harold was in - he had left when the man was still in recovery, revenge an irremediable itch under his skin - and swallowed against the lump in his throat when he entered the small room. White bandages on his head, and a blue hospital gown made him look frail, more his age than he ever appeared, older still. Almost collapsing into the chair, he tentatively held the man’s hand, expecting him to snatch it away.

“Harold.” He called out softly, hoping he would turn his head and look at him. Smile his small secretive smile that would dissolve into a frown within a second.

There was nothing. Not even a twitch. The doctors had informed him of that. Of how sedated he was, and how they weren’t sure how much damage the pressure had done before they had managed to bring it down.

Only time would tell.

Nobody could be sure until he woke up… if he woke up.

His cell phone rang, and he didn’t need to see who was calling. There was only one person, one being, that could access his phone like that. He didn’t even take it out to mute it. It could keep ringing.

And it did.

For dozens of times, but John wasn’t even counting. His focus was on one thing alone, only one tune registered in his head. That was the beat of Harold’s heart, still pumping. Nothing else mattered.

Hours later, the ringing stopped. He wouldn’t even have noticed except for how he felt the vibration in his pocket, once, definitive and final.

It was a text.

The Machine had given up. He had beat it to its stubbornness. Harold would probably be grudgingly impressed by that.

He looked at the peace on the sedated man’s face, at the lines of worry smoothed out, and at the wrinkled fragile skin. At the kindness and compassion that no injury, no drug could ever hide. He knew what Harold would do in his shoes. He would take a deep breath and do what was necessary; what was right.

John wasn’t Harold. But he could carry on the torch for a little longer, do something he knew Harold would like to counteract the things he had done that Harold would hate. So when he woke up, he would look at John with something other than disgust.

Mind made, he opened the text. It was a Number. Apparently the Machine was cutting corners now. Adapting. It was definitely Finch’s creation. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips for a second before going away.

He called Carter. Told her he had a job for her.

John wasn’t Harold. He wasn’t good. But Carter was, she had always been.

* * *

  **NOW**

 

John blinked awake.

Relief had made all his defenses crumble once he got the all clear from the doctors. Finch was in medically induced sleep, so sitting on a chair beside him, his head resting on the same sheets as Harold, breathing in his scent and holding his hand- warm, delicate, alive- he had dozed off. It was the first time his eyes had closed ever since he had carried Harold in his arms into the hospital.

He blinked awake and wondered if he was still dreaming.

But no. His dreams were usually crueler than this. They never showed the man he loved, sitting up and sipping on a straw, smiling down at him.

Maybe it was a different sort of cruelty, showing him something that could never be.

“Good Morning, Mr. Reese.” John still felt pleasantly fuzzy around the edges. If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up from it. “I really wish you had asked for another bed. That posture could not have been comfortable to sleep in.”

Harold’s voice cracked and broke in the end, resulting in dry cough, and he took the straw in his mouth to sip more fluid- water probably.

“What?” After spending better part of a week wishing Harold would speak something, anything at all, this was surreal. “You’re awake?”

“Yes.” Harold’s eyes were infinitely gentle.

“When?”

“A few hours ago.” Harold winced, and just how long had John been sleeping.

The question was obvious on his face apparently, the unasked, ‘ _why didn’t you wake me up_ ,’ because Harold answered, “Nurse Campbell told me you haven’t left in days. Haven’t been sleeping. I asked her to let you rest for a bit.”

“Rest…”

It was difficult to process words.

“You’re okay.”

“Obviously. I received adequate medical care. Which, I am led to believe, you refused.” Harold was looking at his arm, frowning and this was unbelievable. Harold was disapproving of his bullet graze.

“The doctors…”

“- have already been here and checked on me. I am quite well.”

“No you aren’t!” John protested, suddenly sitting straight. “You bled inside your brain Harold! And in your abdomen. You aren’t good at all.”

“John.” Harold tried to move towards him but aborted the movement, putting the cup away with a pained expression. John’s raging emotions gentled a bit at seeing Harold’s pain. “I didn’t bleed inside the brain. I bled outside it. And they fixed it. I feel fine. Trust me.” He was placating, and John didn’t believe him. The pain on his face belied his words anyway.

“You’re in pain.” He stated, still too put off by the sudden change. He wanted to feel relieved, feel happy, but there was still a part of his mind waiting for the other shoe to drop. There was still fear clamoring for attention in his soul.

“Of course I am. I had a major surgery. But so are you!” Harold countered, a little offended now.

“What?”

Harold glanced pointedly at his arm now, his shirt not doing anything to hide the stain of blood, the bulge of bandage. “You really ought to take more care of yourself, Mr. Reese.”

“Take care of myself…” John gaped, repeating the words, “take care of myself!” he scoffed. “ _You’re_ telling _me_ to take care of myself.” His voice was rising, the fear twisting into anger inside him, because he knew how to deal with anger.

“John…”

“No! You don’t get to tell me to be careful. What were you thinking? Coming unarmed into a fight? Being so reckless.”

“What was I supposed to do? Let you die?” Harold sounded so incredulous, like that was not even an option.

“Yes. That’s exactly what you were supposed to do. Better me than you!” He stood up, and shouted.

There was a ringing silence in answer. He glanced at Harold to see his pinched expressions, his lips pressed together in disapproval. Even in a hospital gown, half his head covered in a bandage, he looked formidable.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response.” Harold’s face was stern, the gentleness replaced by displeasure. This was better. This John could deal with.

He deserved the blame. He didn’t deserve the kindness.

“You shouldn’t have interfered, Finch.” John repeated, biting his words.

“If you had listened to me and went into the fight more prepared, I wouldn’t have had to interfere.” That stung. More than he would like to admit.

“If you had listened to me and stayed away-”

“Would you have stayed away if the situations were reversed?” How was Harold so calm, so composed when John’s emotions were raging a storm?

“That’s different. I am disposable. You aren’t. You aren’t supposed to put yourself in danger for me…” John was ranting now, pacing, and speaking all the things he had been thinking in a loop for the past few days.

“How can you even think that?” Harold said but he didn’t even listen.

“You are far too important, Finch. That was the stupidest thing you could ever do. You don’t even know how to fight. Why would you do that? Why would you try and save me. You can’t Finch. You can’t do it. You aren’t allowed to. I am not worth it.” His thoughts kept flitting from one to another, his voice an agony.

“John.” Harold whispered, soft, and John stopped his pacing.

He looked at the frail bruised man on the bed, helplessness showing on his face like a gaping wound, hiding nothing. “Do you know how I felt? Do you have any idea what it was like, watching you get hurt and not being able to help?” He swallowed against the memory of Harold’s scream, walking and sitting on the chair again, not breaking eye contact.

“Do you know how helpless I felt?” He stared into the eyes, and they were so understanding, so he whispered the confession, “How scared?”

“I do.” Harold said, hushed. “I do, Mr. Reese.” John gasped at that, because he could read the truth in the pain etched on Harold’s face. Not physical this time. “If you recall, I have been in your place a few times before.”

John could not contain the sob that emerged from his chest. The empathy in Harold’s words hit him like a punch to the solar plexus, startling. Because Harold _understood_.

Another dry sob followed the first one, and he clutched Harold’s hand obsessively, feeling it tighten in his grip and remembering all the times he wished it did that. He had to press his lips to it obsessively, again and again, tears slipping from his eyes unheeded, sobs wracking his frame.

He sagged, his head buried in the mattress of the bed, his lips still trembling over the skin of the back of Harold’s hand. The tears drained all the coiling unnamed sentiments in his heart, cleansing.

A stifled, almost-gasp, came from Harold, before John felt fingers sink in his hair, a hand patting his head.

“I am okay, John.” He cried harder upon hearing that, stuck between belief and disbelief, but Harold seemed to have all the time, all the patience. “I am okay now. I am okay.”

* * *

  **1 week later.**

 

Reese strides into the hospital, his black coat flapping behind him, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a box of donuts in the other. The hospital food was barely serviceable but the first morning after being allowed solid food, Harold had touched the tea cup to his lips and made a disgusted face, and John had vowed not to subject Finch to the horror of stale tea again. Same went for the actual food.

Harold was not fussy. He just had refined tastes. And Reese realized he loved indulging them.

So it was bearing perfectly made green tea, and tasty delicacies, he neared the hospital room, a skip in his step and a smile on his lips. Even though he had left only a few hours ago, he already missed Finch’s face. The desire to spend every possible minute with him was getting a little out of control.

Outside the room, he bumped into Nurse Campbell and smiled broadly. She had seen him at his worst, and had compassion that warmed John’s very soul. He would always have a soft spot for her from here on.

“Hello.” He greeted, and then offered her the box of sweet things.

She laughed, replying to his greeting and picking a donut and looking at him fondly.

“It suits you.”

“What suits me?”

“Happiness.” She answered and John’s smile wavered a bit, before returning full force. “He is lucky to have a partner like you.”

“I am lucky to have him.” His voice was a little rough with emotions, and she hummed in response, not disputing it, nor agreeing. She raised her hand and patted his cheek, and John bent a little to allow her to reach him easier. She was barely in her thirties and yet, John wondered, how can so much empathy be suffused into such a small body.

“I should go,” he cleared his throat and straightened up, “he gets grumpy when he doesn’t get his breakfast on time.”

The Nurse laughed again. It was such a happy sound that it tugged a smile on John’s face automatically.

“Oh yes. We don’t want that now do we. In you go.” And with that and a wave, she left him.

Feeling odd, realizing that she was definitely right, and he _was_ happy, he opened the door and was stopped in his tracks by the sight that greeted him.

“Good Morning, Mr. Reese.” Harold glanced at him, sitting propped up and behaving as if there was nothing strange in this picture.

Which, two weeks ago, there wouldn’t have been. But seeing Harold typing on a laptop, which was perched on the table where food usually went, scrunching his face in familiar concentration gave John a sense of vertigo.

“Finch?” The name came out as a question unconsciously.

“You’re right on time. We have a new number.” He furiously typed for a few seconds before turning the screen a little towards John, beckoning him to come closer and have a look.

“Finch. Are you sure you should be working already?” he asked tentatively, unable to find his footing.

“Of course I am. There is no reason to lie around in bed when I could be helping. There are people to save.” Harold snapped, and John closed his mouth.

“Joss and Lionel can take care of them, like they have been this past week.” he argued anyway.

“They shouldn’t have to. I am perfectly capable of handling the technical aspect of our work.” His lip quivered a bit, rising into a small smile, “I only had a ruptured spleen. Don’t need that to work on a laptop. Honestly, not the worst thing that has happened to someone like me.”

“You do need a brain though.” John countered darkly.

“Which I have. In perfectly healthy condition, as the doctors have assured me.”

John placed the tea near the laptop, the nostalgia choking him. Harold picked it up, took a sip and gave an approving nod.

“If you would rather I work with someone else for the time being…”

“No.” He shook his head abruptly.

“Okay then.” Harold waited for John to nod, prepare himself. Once he did, he turned the laptop a bit more, picking up a chocolate donut and starting to speak.

“Ms. Russell. Works for an advertisement agency…”

John drunk in every word. Harold’s voice settled his scattered nerves into a pleasant hum of having a purpose. Having a person worth following. Having a place to belong to.

* * *

**1 month later.**

 

John helped Harold with his shirt, holding it behind him to make threading his arms through the sleeves easier and then coming around to button it. While Harold could walk around with support and do most of his day to day activities without helping, getting into his layered clothes was not easy. Especially with still healing ribs and the long scar of surgery.

Waistcoat followed the shirt, and then the coat, and Harold batted away his hands when he tried to fix the tie, because apparently he was doing it wrong. He smiled, letting his partner fix it himself as he gathered the stuff into a bag, readying to leave.

They were going home today. Harold had finally received the all clear from the doctors, and was free now.

John had brought Harold’s most expensive suit from the safe house, and even though Finch had not said anything on seeing that, the appreciation of the gesture was clear in the way Harold had promptly decided to get into it. As John had suspected, staying in the cheap cloth of hospital gown for so many days was not something Harold had particularly enjoyed.

“Ready to go, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked after a few moments.

When John turned, he felt like he would collapse from the sudden emotions the sight caused in him. It wasn’t like he had not seen Finch look sharp and beautiful, in the crisp lines of his suit before. It wasn’t like he had not seen and appreciated it hundreds of times.

It was just that… he had been afraid he wouldn’t ever see it again.

Harold was holding on to the wall with a hand though, the strain of standing barely hidden in his expressions.

“Almost.” John picked up the other thing he had brought, offering it to Harold, giving him a choice.

Harold stared, and took a long moment to reply. “Thank you.”

And with that, he took the offered cane. John smiled. He knew he did not get that wrong. Finch was prideful. He would not like to lean against John, nor would he appreciate making his pain obvious. He would definitely prefer to walk on his own. He had noticed the expressions of his face when John had helped him into a wheelchair the past month, and how he had obviously preferred to wheel it around himself. Harold was not ashamed of his injuries, but he obviously did not appreciate being coddled. Becoming a burden.

“Now we are ready.” John kept the door open, holding the bags, and Harold took slow and measured steps, getting out of the room. John waited patiently, and it wasn’t even a hardship. For Harold, he could wait forever.

Saying goodbye to the staff they saw around, nodding at the nurses and the doctors, they finally made their way out. The parking lot was not very far, and even though he already looked a little tired, Finch also looked like he was enjoying the freedom of moving his limbs. The sun was shining bright and warm, and Finch looked up, closing his eyes. John stared at his face, saw him absorbing the warmth of the sun, and felt overcome with love.

All of a sudden, he remembered a promise he had made to himself, what felt like a lifetime ago. Now, looking at Harold, alive and well, a little broken along the edges but all the more dearer for it, he could not keep it in any longer.

“I love you.” He blurted out, no finesse. He wanted to bang his forehead on the wall at how abrupt that was, how raw. No preamble or pretense.

Harold opened his eyes and looked at him, and chuckled fondly, before closing them back and soaking in the sun.

Rejection slapped hard across John’s face, followed by insult. It wasn’t that Harold did not return the sentiment, it was that he didn’t believe it.

Without making a decision to do so, suddenly John was crowding in Harold’s space. It was okay if Harold didn’t feel it back, but there was no way he could let him pretend that John hadn’t said the words, and bared his soul.

“I mean it.” He placed his hand on Harold’s arm, trembling with unnamed emotions, “I do. I love you. You may think my judgement is clouded, but I have loved you for a long time now, even though I didn’t realize it until you were dying in my arms.” Harold had opened his eyes now, and was looking at him with a tender expression. “You’re impossible. I can’t believe you still don’t believe me.”

He had no idea how to express himself if Harold was just going to listen to his confessions and consider him emotionally compromised by the recent events. He jerked away, trying to hurry to the car, and forget about his foolishness.

“John.” Harold’s whisper-soft voice stopped his retreat in its tracks. “I believe you.”

His gaze snapped back to Harold’s face, seeing the same warmth as before. Where was the confusion? The shock and the amazement? Where was the disgust? The disappointment?

Harold smiled, as if reading his thoughts. “I can’t believe you thought I didn’t know that already.”

_What?_

How could Harold have known when it took John so long to realize it himself?

“I told you, a long time ago. I know almost everything about you, Mr. Reese. And as you’ve proven, I knew more about you than you did yourself.”

The smug grin and the words on Harold’s lips were frying all of John’s brain cells. He didn’t have any words to reply with, no thought settling enough to be voiced.

Apparently, words weren’t what were needed at the moment anyway, because Harold was leaning on his cane, and with its help standing on his tiptoes. With his other hand, he clutched John’s collar, bringing his face down. Then, sure of himself, albeit wincing at the strain, he pressed his lips to John’s.

It felt like sealing a contract, a burning stamp of Harold’s touch, claiming John as his.

Shaken to his core, John opened his eyes, Harold’s hand caressing his face gently, his eyes mirroring what John was feeling. Love.

And then, because Harold was wonderful and never did anything by halves, he said the words too, to complete the bond, “In case it wasn’t clear. I love you too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. It’s done. I took a month to plan and write it but it’s DONE and now I am gonna rant about a medical thing. It’s about the fic but not exactly relevant. 
> 
> Epidural Hematoma.  
> It is caused by rupture of a vessel in your dura mater (that’s the covering of your brain) and causes accumulation of blood in between a hard skull bone and your brain. Typically, the symptoms are like this: Head injury or trauma followed by loss of consciousness, a period of alertness, then rapid deterioration back to unconsciousness.  
> So Harold waking up in the car scene is exactly what would happen with the injury he has had. It’s totally plausible. It’s called the lucid interval.  
> But also…Guess what? Treat them properly, and they heal COMPLETELY, so Harold not having any remnant brain damage is not strange or like… implausible. It’s totally what would happen.
> 
> Spleen rupture? Also something that definitely happens with a kick in the right place, and also something you completely recover from.  
> So like… I feel like I am boasting but I basically chose two things that would be LIFE THREATENING but eventually curable, if treated in time. Just wanted to clarify that.  
> I hope you all enjoyed reading it. Please leave me a comment? Let me know what you thought? It would mean the world to me!!
> 
> Okay now I am done.  
> Thank you for reading :D.


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